I went to see a urologist, but I made a small mistake about the door. However, struck by the beauty of the fair lady, I didn’t immediately understand that I had made the Fabergé shine—not in front of the urologist, but in front of the therapist. To fall in love at forty-three at first sight—so much that your roof starts leaking? I can. I know how. As it turns out, I practice it. But the problem arose from where nobody expected it. It turned out that the representative of such a noble profession can’t stand rich, powerful uncles like me. Well, nothing—there was a businessman, Petr Sobolev—so he became a bioenergy therapist. “Baby, I’ll open your sahasrara!”